The nights are longer now

He detects a chill in the air

Perhaps the beginning of old age.

A look in the mirror and he sighs,

The greying hair and beard

Tell tales he doesn’t want to hear.

No longer the babe

He was nine months ago

his youthfulness now past.

It must be October he muses

The time no year wants to think of,

The beginning of the end.

Stubbornly he aborts the thought

Refusing to accept the verdict

As one rejects all thought of his demise.

“And he slept with his fathers”

He is startled now

By words spoken from his core.

“The end is not yet”

The voice is clear and calming

The source within.

Boldly he sets upright

Why he has yet,

A quarter of his lifetime left unspent!

There are leaves to shake from trees

Flakes of snow to blow in the wind

And lives to change forever.

He smiles, knowing now

That he will go passively in the end,

Yet this is but October.